


Mr Wilkinson and the Chocolate Factory

by bongbingbong



Category: Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971)
Genre: Autistic Character, Gen, absolutely and guess what? you can't stop me, am i projecting?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-01-22 21:53:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21309199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: A prequel to the 1971 film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, told through the eyes of Wonka's oldest friend and Slugworth impersonator extraordinaire, Mr Wilkinson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been thinking about this for a long time, and realistically we know that Wonka doesn't trust easily after The Incident, so having Wilkinson there and working for him must mean that he trusts him a lot. From there it kind of snowballed that Willy Wonka has a best friend who looks after the paperwork and his one (1) brain cell while he runs off and hyperfixates on candy.

**7th July 1961**

William left this morning on the first plane out. Dropped him off at the airport about three hours ago, but I’m already worried. It’s been months since the incident (which is what I have elected to refer to the whole Slugworth business as, given that the name will render him mute for several hours after its utterance), but he still doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s been so quiet lately, but he at least seemed a little livelier when he was packing. Had to pick out some clothes for him, as he still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of dressing like a normal human being, and I don’t think he’s quite ready for anyone to approach him in public yet. Tucked his hair up into a cap as best as we could, but I imagine it will find some way to escape soon. Sent him off with some of my plainest old clothes - they're far too large on him but if he rolls the shirtsleeves and trouser legs up, he looks mostly passable. I say passable - he looks like an absolute lunatic, and I certainly would go out of my way to avoid him were I to encounter him on the streets. He seemed delighted by the prospect.

**9th July 1961**

Phoned William. He says under no circumstances am I to allow anybody into the factory. Inquired as to whether or not this included cleaning and maintenance. He expressed that he would rather not, but I told him if he thinks I’m going to mop all of his floors myself I will upon his return personally unwrap every single one of his remaining chocolate bars and insert them up his ass. He agreed on hiring cleaners. Radio silence from him hereon in; he’s declared that he’s going to go on a “safari” to “find himself.” Don’t know why he couldn’t have just looked in a mirror.

A joke, by the way. I hope he finds what he’s looking for.

**14th July 1961**

Cleaning and reorganizing is going well. Ventured into the inventing room for the first time in months. William has been too preoccupied (depressed, rather) to try his hand at cleaning, and frankly I have been too afraid to try for anything other than our immediate quarters and our offices. 

Room looked just as I remember it, though everything is covered in a thin layer of dust. Uncovered several vials labelled “speedy juice.” Several of them are empty. Two contain a bluish fizzy liquid. I also discovered that against my wishes he has in fact kept his coffee bean distillation machine operational, albeit sequestered in the far corner of the room where I believe he has been keeping it hidden from me. Presumably he has not tried it again since the last time or I would know, given that he has not in recent memory spent several hours trying to turn the corridors into a giant syrupy slip and slide before declaring himself the new emperor and blacking out outside my office door. 

The other experiments he has left behind look as though they might be explosive in some way. One of them appears to be prototype number 4 of exploding candy, which he has very aptly left behind next to the crater from prototype number 3.

**20th July 1961**

Received a phone call from William. He asked if we had room for “about two hundred people” at the factory. I hung up. Will call him back tomorrow when I am sufficiently rested.


	2. Chapter 2

**1st August 1961**

I cannot possibly say this to William directly, because I’ve not seen him this happy in years. Since the incident with the-candymaker-who-shall-not-be-named, actually. Here’s the thing though: Oompa Loompas are the most infinitely irritating beings I have ever encountered on this godforsaken earth. I cannot fathom why William wants them around. All they do all day is eat, drink, and sing. While I fully appreciate their need to celebrate their newfound freedom, they are far too interested in messing with the workings of the factory for my liking. Last night they managed to slam a funnel into a large vat of chocolate liqueur and were taking turns chugging the stuff until they swelled up like big, wet, drunk balloons.

They are also given to bouts of improvised singing, which I cannot stand. There is only ever one tune that they use, and they have a tendency to just sing about whatever they happen to be looking at. They’ve sung about William’s new whipped cream recipe (he can swirl this one a metre high before it starts collapsing), and the time he got his coat caught on a door handle and dropped cranberries all down the stairs (why was he holding them in his hands, the imbecile). This morning he was wandering the corridors for hours muttering under his breath about a new kind of gobstopper - I only discovered this because their latest song was basically a direct transcription of what they heard. I hope this means they’re running out of material.

William, for his part, is enthusiastic about their enthusiasm, but when he returned from his travels he was the thinnest I had ever seen him, and I still worry for his health. He has, of course, thrown himself back into candymaking with a renewed vigour, but I have removed all traces of coffee and “speedy juice,” which I hope he has managed to forget about. Work in the inventing room is nevertheless going at a whirlwind pace - the Oompa Loompas seem very interested in his process.

**2nd August 1961**

It appears that the Oompa Loompas’ interest in our affairs extends to my sizeable pile of stocktaking and paperwork. I hereby withdraw my previous assessment.

**3rd August 1961**

In a gesture of friendship, I decided to start giving names to the Oompa Loompas. They told me to "fuck off" - their words, not mine. 

**3rd August 1961**

As it turns out, they already have names and resented my naming them as though they were pets. When they put it like that, I realise I have been rude. They explained to me, as one might a child, that their names are very difficult to pronounce, and that humans are idiots. My attempts only confirmed their assessment, but William and I will practice together until we have it right. They suggested that I use "sir" in the meantime, and when I asked what I ought to call their women, they laughed at me. Unsure of what to think.

**4th August 1961**

Zen (the Oompa Loompa who now shares an office with me) asked why I say William when the chocolate labels refer to him as Willy. I introduced him to the concept of nicknames, which he seemed delighted by. Zen it is, for now. The rest of the Oompa Loompas wanted to know if their nickname had to be a shortened version of their own name, or if it could be any word. Now faced with Oompa Loompas who want to call themselves Supreme, Capricciosa, and Meat Lovers. Unsure of how to dissuade that last one without being rude.

**5th August 1961**

The Oompa Loompas appear to have just discovered that William eats from the same set of extremely bland food at almost every meal (equal and separate servings of potato, chicken, peas, and carrots) and have found his resolve immovable on that front. They have, instead, decided to turn their attention on me and the frankly embarrassing amount of takeout I buy (although they seem perfectly content to share my pizza). Dinner with them is somewhat like being absorbed by a very chatty swarm of bees, being stuffed full of food and then spat out several hours later when everyone is too sleepy to keep talking at you. It is delightful, but exhausting. If only we could figure out somewhere else to channel their energy.

**6th August 1961**

William has decided that he will be reopening the factory. I briefly began to ask him where exactly he planned on finding the manpower to do that, but realised that for once it is I who am the imbecile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bill the candy shop owner (that's his actual name in the film, as it turns out) makes an appearance!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Bill being a friend of Wilkinson's, and someone who sort of just is a huge fan of Wonka's. I mean, he dedicates an entire musical number to talking about how amazing he is.

It was happening. They were taking deliveries. The machines were running, and the smell of burnt sugar and cocoa billowed into the sky from the chimneys at the Wonka factory. The odd, echoing silence that had settled behind the iron gates had lifted. Children lingered at the gate at all hours of the day and night, usually accompanied by their parents. They squinted and craned their necks in the hope that perhaps they might catch a glimpse of the legendary Mr Wonka, and whoever it was that had helped him start up the factory again. It was all in vain of course - nobody ever went in, and nobody ever came out. Out the front door, that is. Wonka and Wilkinson weren’t stupid enough to do something like that. They had a secret passage that they used to get into town.

Bill, owner of the town’s sole candy shop, had met Wonka only once, when they had both been young men. Wonka and Wilkinson had arrived one day, when he had only been open for a few weeks. Wilkinson, wearing one of his father’s old suits, had told him that they were going into business, and would he mind terribly if he sold some of their chocolate in his store? Wonka - wearing orange breeches and a shirt that looked like his mother’s wallpaper - had watched the two of them intently for a while, and then let fly a turbo-charged flurry of information about new chocolate making methods he was trying out, for about five minutes straight. Bill remembered looking to Wilkinson for help, but the man had only given him a small, knowing smile. Nowadays Wonka had very little desire to leave his factory, although he did write Bill some lovely, rambling letters from time to time. It was Wilkinson who did the rounds of the town, if it was ever necessary. 

Wilkinson had been cursed, or perhaps blessed with a face so severely constructed that most children avoided him. He supposed that he reminded them of a particularly strict headmaster, or perhaps an imposing and austere uncle. Either way, he dressed accordingly - wearing bleak colours and long, stiff clothing that emphasised his height and angularity. It worked to his advantage on days like this, when he strode through the door of Bill’s candy store. As the bell on the door chimed, the few nine-or-ten year olds inside took one look at him and scattered, hurriedly scooping up their change and the collection of gumballs they had purchased. Wilkinson watched them go, then deftly flipped the sign over so that it read “closed.”

“Well, I suppose it’s nice to see you too,” said Bill. He had been rearranging his shelves, and was currently perched on a ladder, holding a jar of jelly beans.  
“Sorry,” said Wilkinson, “I’ll let you reopen in a minute - I just wanted to have a word with you in private.”  
Bill tucked the jar under his arm and slid expertly down the ladder. He knew what this was going to be about already. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t excited.  
“So,” began Wilkinson, but Bill interrupted him.  
“You’re reopening, aren’t you? You’re here to tell me you’re reopening?”  
Wilkinson had that same small smile on his face, the one Bill had figured out meant he was genuinely pleased with something.  
“Got it in one. I wanted to tell you in person.”  
“Richard, you sly old dog!” said Bill, jumping the counter and hugging him tight. Wilkinson allowed it, just this once.  
“William thinks it will be hilarious if he only sets up your store with his new chocolates… just for a week or so. A publicity stunt, of sorts.”  
“I love it. Yes! Absolutely, anything you want!”  
Wilkinson shook his head.  
“You have to realise that you’re setting yourself up for a week of utter chaos around here. You’re going to have press in - papers, television, you name it. Not to mention the... children.”  
“I don’t care! When does he want to start making deliveries? Oh, I’ll have to redecorate.”  
“Well, don’t let me keep you from getting started.”  
Bill, grinning like a madman, placed one finger on the stand of Ficklegruber bars. With a flick of his wrist, sent it crashing to the floor with a whoop of joy.  
“You’re going to sing a song about it, aren’t you?” said Wilkinson.  
“You be-et!” came the reply, already in a sing-song sort of cadence.  
“Right. Well, in that case I’ll phone you.”

Bill walked him out and held the door open for the handful of children who had gathered to press their noses against the window.  
“Hey mister, what’s this?”  
The child who had spoken was pointing at a shiny foil wrapped bar sitting on his countertop. Bill picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He smiled.  
“I’m not sure. Let’s find out, shall we?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the plot thickens, and Mr Wilkinson decides he's going to have to go and do some punching.

**28th January, 1962**

Things are finally settling down enough for me to start the journal up again. What a time it's been! I can't for the life of me remember the last time we were this busy - the chocolate, yes, that's flying out the windows, but the public's appetite for secrets seems to be even more insatiable. William's taking care of that side of things for the moment. Which is not to say that I've abandoned him to the task for reasons of laziness or an aversion to the good people who buy our candy bars but I fear that any correspondence I would engage in would find itself registering with a sour note in the mind of the reader. It's just the way I write, I suppose.

I know he doesn't like being holed up with paperwork when there are new flavours of gum to discover, or whatever it is he's got going on in the inventing room at the moment. He's opened up a new room specifically to house it though, so I can imagine whatever it is is going to be pretty impressive. Or spectacularly destructive. I can only hope for the former. At any rate, he can handle the letter-writing himself, given I'm handling everything else his order-averse brain struggles to grasp.

We've had to increase security everywhere - not something I thought I'd ever say about a chocolate factory, but the fact is that every other day we're chasing someone off who's snuck past the gates, or climbed the wall. The children gather outside too, mostly to peek at the flashing lights and breathe in the smell of chocolate. There was a time when we used to set up a little stand out the front and pass chocolates out to everyone who came past. I must admit to feeling a little sadness that times like those are over for us. Bill is being a great sport about it, although given the amount of business we've brought him as of late I daresay he has no reason to complain. I do enjoy dropping in from time to time, even if it does put any children present on edge. I wasn't built for interacting with them. The security problems have put us all a little on edge too, because there's no way at least a few of those aren't from the S-word company. Don't know why they can't just try making good candy.

The Oompa Loompas are adding "taste testers" to their growing list of roles. Their suggestion, not ours. Testers were chosen via some sort of tasting competition William set up, which was quite funny to me given that William has burned, shocked, cut, and blistered his tongue on so many different things I'm surprised he has tastebuds left in his mouth at all. 

**4th February, 1962**

William went grocery shopping this morning, in disguise.

By disguise, I mean he raided my closet while I was in my office and allowed Mister Garlic and Meat Lovers (I must remember to have a chat with the fellow about that nickname) to dress him. Imagine my surprise when he scrambled out of the secret passage, hair, paper bags and my best tweed suit (which fit him about as well as a hessian sack might) flying every which way. He's been in the kitchen all day making dinner it seems, which is rather out of character for him. Tomato soup, roast beef, potatoes, gravy - the whole lot - and a blueberry pie. I often forget that he's a very good cook, given that he strays so rarely from his usual eating habits. The strangest thing was though, he carried it all on a big silver platter past all of the residential areas of the factory, off into the inventing room. I can't imagine what he's doing in there with all that food. Certainly not eating it.

**10th February, 1962**

William is officially barred from writing any more letters. It turns out they've become some sort of a collectible item among chocolate aficionados (when did that become an occupation? We were both certain the majority of his customers were children) and people are essentially selling the certified "Wonka Originals" for frankly ridiculous prices. It's actually quite sad - I'm sure that William won't say this aloud, but those letters were his last link to the outside world. Perhaps if he shaved his head, he might be able to go out. There's no mistaking that personality, though.

More news on Slugworth (I don't know why I've been avoiding his name in here. William doesn't read this). William has kept a stack of letters from children who "sound very boring" (his words, not mine) and upon looking through them, it appears that they all have in common a request somewhere to know an ingredient or a technique from his cookbook. Meaty (worse. The nickname has gotten worse) had a look through them all as well, and confirmed that the handwriting in all of the letters matches. Luckily William is a terrible procrastinator when it comes to anything he finds too boring, because he never replied to any of them. Well, they'll all be getting a reply now, in the form of my fist, in his face. More to come when I'm back in the morning.


End file.
